Five Characters In Search of An Exit
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: They were all dissatisfied, in some way, with how bitter their lives had become. They never considered how much they might need one another. AU. TBC are adults, in NYC, with different stories and jobs. They meet once, by chance. A meeting that will change their lives forever.
1. Chapter 1

"We are in the darkness; nameless things with no memory—no knowledge of what went before, no understanding of what is now, no knowledge of what will be." – _the ballerina, Five Characters In Search of An Exit, The Twilight Zone, 1961_

-O-O-O-

Her beaded hair piece caught in her matted red curls, making her curse as she unpinned it and laid it amongst the chaos that was her makeup table. She pulled her bun free and let the copper tendrils fall in bent crooks and clumps from being caught in the tight hairstyle for the past seven hours.

Claire glared at herself in the mirror, at the loose hair, dramatic makeup, pale skin beginning to wrinkle. Only she was sure she was imagining the wrinkled part. At twenty-five, her skin was still porcelain white, young and youthful. Maybe it was just that she felt so old.

She needed a shower. And a foot massage. It never felt as good when she did it herself, but that's how it had been for the past five years. She hadn't time for dating at NYU, too concentrated on her dancing. And now, in the New York Ballet Company, there certainly wasn't time for anything other than performance.

Her life was a routine: wake up, breakfast, work out, practice, lunch, run, show up at the theatre, make up and hair, perform. It had been the cycle for two months now since _Cinderella _opened.

Sometimes she felt like a robot. Like she'd just been regurgitating the same steps, the same processes night after night after night.

Once, it had all been exciting. Once upon a time, she was the queen of the city, but the rush of the rat race grew weary.

Quickly, Claire changed from her costume, discarding it properly in the hamper for the laundry runner to wash and re-hang. She flung her tights into the waste bin before grabbing her thick wool coat, shrugging it on and quickly tossing her hair into a messy ponytail.

She stopped to bid goodnight to her friends in the next dressing room, and paused only briefly to have a conversation with James, the resident 'Prince Charming.' How fitting, she thought, as he shamelessly flirted and she tried to cut the conversation short.

The air outside the theatre was bitter cold, sending a chill up her spine. She shrugged the coat further around her, buttoning the brass buttons against the sharp wind. The streets were sill loud and busy, as they always seemed to be. At one point she'd been excited. She'd lived for the rush of the cars and the bustle of people on the New York streets, always moving and coursing by with purpose and promise. But the scene had grown cheap quickly.

She lifted her hand to hail a cab. Moments later, she slid inside the warm vehicle, very unaware of the man behind her, tucked up into a grey tweed trench coat, perched in a heap on the curb.

John watched her leave. She hadn't even heard him when he'd asked her for change. Or maybe she'd ignored him. As usual.

"Yeah, goodnight to you too, Princess," he muttered, cupping his gloved hands at his mouth, blowing a puff of air into them.

He'd seen her before. Her image was on the posters plastered on the theatre doors just feet away, after all. Cinderella. How perfect.

He watched her often. He'd sleep here, play here, beg here nearly every day until the police ran him out. It was impossible not to begin to recognize people, especially at a place that usually milled with the same old crowd. People traveled the same paths to work, or to lunch. He never would've picked her out among any of the other yuppie dancers that revolved through the stage door if it hadn't been for that shocking red hair.

And she was beautiful.

He'd admit it. He thought she was gorgeous. A perfect princess from a fairytale. All pink lips and wide-eyes.

"Yeah right," he muttered to himself, shoving the thoughts away.

He bunched himself deeper within his worn, oversized coat and sighed. It was going to be a long night. Snow was already dusted along the sidewalks and piled along the gutters. He'd considered hauling himself to the Salvation Army to at least have a cot for the night, but in his current state of inebriation, he couldn't put up with the bickering among the others there, and would probably end up on the streets anyways after picking a fight. It wouldn't be a first.

John Bender considered himself the predictable bum. Any money he got was used for food or booze, sometimes cigarettes if he could splurge. He'd be honest if anyone asked. He drank. And often. It was easier to stay drunk than to deal with the realities of his situation.

All he had was a sack of clothes and a beaten acoustic guitar slung over his back. He'd never pawn it, even in desperation.

It struck him sometimes that he was unidentifiable. No ID, no birth certificate. All of that was gone. As far any one knew, John Gregory Bender from Shermer, Illinois had died. Not that anyone would care or remember if he had.

He'd left and hadn't looked back. Maybe his parents had died by now. That'd be fine by him.

Over the years since dropping out of high school, he'd worked odd jobs along the path of states to New York, eventually finding his way here. He'd held a few jobs in the city: at a bakery, a construction company. But his vices had always been a problem. The alcohol and the occasional blaze up in the alley eventually got him booted from those jobs. It was easier to remain this way. It was easier to not worry. Easier not to hear from people that his life was a 'downward spiral.' And easier to get what he needed from dealers. Over the past few months, simple Mary Jane had become less appealing. It was the same old ride. He found other forms to be much more satisfying and left him feeling less like a kid on the playground hiding from the principal.

He ducked further beneath his hood as the snow began to fall more abundantly, leaving specks along his coat and worn out boots.

Maybe the Salvation Army wasn't sounding so bad now. He scooped up his sack of clothes, hoping that maybe he'd be able to bargain the lady in charge of the operation for some new ones. His guitar was heavy against his back, but he kept it close. Busking seemed to be his primary source of income these days.

The walk was long and wet in the watery snow, but it had been worse. By the time he was settled and flopped onto his cot in the corner of the room, lined with dozens of other beds, he assumed it was nearly three in the morning.

Sleep was a rarity in these places. Babies cried all night, people shouted and fought and screamed. Druggies who knew him begged for a bag of cheap dope. But at least he was out of the cold and a hot breakfast was promised to him in a few hours when the workers cleared them all out of here.

Nearby, a tiny female figure was slumped over, wearing a frayed and furry parka, nibbling at her nails.

John watched her intently as she gnawed at her hand, blowing away the pieces from between her lips, watching wide-eyed as they fell to the concrete floor as if they were confetti.

_Snap. Snap. Snap._

Eventually, he was fed up.

"Hey!" he snarled, sitting up and throwing the threadbare blanket aside.

She glanced up sharply, as well as several of the surrounding residents.

They shared a glare, as if daring the other to look away first. The bottle of rum he'd downed earlier made his head swim as he tried to come up with a suitable insult.

"I've seen you before, you know?" was all he could manage.

She glared back, unmoving.

He had. She'd been here before when he stayed a few weeks ago. He wondered if she'd even moved from her spot. Like she was buried alive. Forgotten, but still breathing.

"You keep eating your hand, there won't be any room for lunch," he finally sneered.

She still didn't move. All at once, she opened her mouth and spat a gnarled and chewed bit of fingernail in his direction. He watched it, teetering on the edge of his cot, jagged and white and red with blood.

He glared up at her, ready to pick a fight, adrenaline already rushing in his ears. Before he could muster the strength to stand and hurl a few insults, he decided picking a fight with a woman wasn't worth it, especially a crazy bat like that. He slumped back onto his cot, feigning sleep so she'd leave him the hell alone.

A few minutes passed, and satisfied that she'd forgotten about him, he opened his eyes. She was curled up on her own cot now, just a few rows away. She clutched at the small nap-sack she carried like it was a newborn baby, cradling it close lest anyone come and snatch it away. His own guitar was still slung over his shoulder, resting uncomfortably against his back on the tiny cot. He understood. Here, in this hell hole, it was best to keep any belongings close to you. Any psycho could come by and nab it.

He watched her brown eyes concentrated on the ceiling above, her hands red and streaked. Her dark hair was wild and hung in her face. It made her look like an animal. Maybe she was. Maybe they all were. They certainly weren't human any more, not by what they'd been told.

He waited until her eyes snapped shut, finally sleeping, and there it was. The little tear trickling over her cheek. The only sign that she was still alive.

He watched the drop until it meshed with her hair, hidden again.

His eyes closed, and he tried to drown out the sounds of crying and chatter around him. For comfort, he pictured the red head again. He imagined her all curled up in her warm little flat with a mug of tea. In his mind, her name was Cindy. Close enough to Cinderella. Or maybe it was Rose, or Grace. Something uppity and pristine. Her hair was soft when he touched it, and smelled like flowers.

As soon as he'd finally caught the coat tails of sleep, the lights were flicked on and the crowd was rushed out, handed a foil-wrapped breakfast taco and sent on their way once more.

The cycle started once again.


	2. Chapter 2

The ground was blanketed in snow when she left her penthouse the next morning. Her black heeled boots crunched into the ice and crystals as she made her way to a local deli. This morning was a welcomed change from routine. Andrew Clark, a friend from high school had called her up to meet for lunch.

He, his wife, and children had just moved to Manhattan from Chicago when Andy was offered a job with the Times. He'd been writing a highly acclaimed sports column for the past few years since college, but the family had decided it was time to move before the children got too old. She was excited to see him and catch up, even only as a welcomed break to the cycles of classes and rehearsals.

Outside the deli, a man was perched atop a bucket, guitar in his lap, strumming out an impressive version of Sunshine Of Your Love. He winked as she passed, but she grimaced, not even slowing her pace when she dropped a dollar in the open hard case in front of him.

She noticed her friend immediately. He hadn't changed one bit, except for the hideous, retro glasses he now wore. He was already waiting in a booth, alone, wearing a thick wool sweater and slacks, reading the paper.

She pressed her palms to the table. "Boo. Long time no see, old man."

He glanced up over the rims of his glasses and smirked. He slid them from his face, smiling. "Yeah. I only need them to read. I'm not a total nerd."

She slid into the booth and ordered a coffee.

"Its nice to see you. What's Chicago's state champ up to these days?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just getting used to the city. Martia took the kids to their first day of school today. I had to settle things at the office so I couldn't go with her."

Claire didn't miss the pained look behind the blue in his eyes, but she didn't comment.

"And you? How's dancing?"

She smiled widely over her coffee cup. "Well, you read don't you?" She reached over to point at the advertisement on the front page for her ballet. "That's me," she said proudly, pointing to the image of the dancer in the white costume, red hair pinned up neatly, resting in the arms of a handsome prince.

"Whoa! Cinderella? Congrats, Claire!"

She shrugged, tossing her shoulder length hair over one shoulder. "I thought my mother had contacted everyone in the phone book and told them the news. Its been running about three months."

"I should take the girls for Christmas," Andy mused, folding the paper neatly.

Claire fiddled with the spoon on the napkin, gazing out the window at the man on the curb. A few more passersby had dropped change or bills into his case and he paused in his playing to thank them. This time, his eyes met hers through the frosted pane of glass. His gaze was intense, stunning, pulling her into those round hazel orbs. She watched, waiting for him to make a move. But he just smirked and tossed his dingy brown hair over one shoulder, scrunching his nose and looking away,

"Claire? Hey," Andy said, breaking her gaze. She could hear the chords of Jingle Bell Rock through the windows.

"Oh, sorry. Heh," she chuckled softly, dropping the napkin she hadn't noticed she'd been slowly tearing to shreds. "I could…I could comp you tickets if you wanted to come. I can do four at the most."

Andy brightened. "Sure. It'd be me, my wife, and the twins. So that's perfect."

Claire smiled at the mention of his twins. "How old are they now?"

"Almost five," he said, fishing for his wallet to flash the picture he carried around.

Claire remembered the scandal that had passed through the college campus and the upper class of Chicago when Andrew Clarke and Martia Thymes married during their junior year of college. Of course, as a close friend of Andy, she'd known that the marriage hadn't merely come about as a pledge of fidelity. Martia had insisted upon the marriage when she'd discovered she was pregnant. Lucky enough, the twins were born just eight months to the day after the marriage, to keep Chicago society at bay. Andrew hadn't wanted to hurt either of their reputations, and marriage was the only way to keep the rumors quiet.

After leaving college, raising two children and finding a job had certainly been hard. But they managed. His column was certainly a hit among Chicago news critics, though Martia was slipping further and further away into the bottom of the bottle, a hole Andy couldn't manage to dig her out of this time.

He passed the photograph to her, and she smiled warmly. "Oh, Andy. They're so beautiful."

He turned the picture, taking a glimpse at it himself. "I know. I sure am proud."

"You should be."

This time, when Andrew slipped the photograph back into its slot, the sad, helpless frown didn't go unnoticed.

"Is everything ok, Andy?" she asked, reaching over to rest her fingers against his wrist.

His lips twitched at the contact, staring at the pink painted nails against his skin. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's great. We're great," he lied.

Claire knew it, but didn't press.

Andy let out a long sigh, and arched his shoulders back and forward again, a habit from high school and college, back when wrestling had been wearing his muscles and bones. Now, the only thing wearing away was his resolve. And his marriage.

"Come on. I've got to be back at the office by one o'clock," he said, standing and dropping a five on the counter to pay for their coffees.

She stood, smoothing her A-line skirt, checking her outfit before throwing on her coat. Andy bee-lined for the men's room, suggesting she wait outside and they'd hail a cab together.

She waited on the sidewalk, riffling through her purse for her lipstick tube.

"Hey, Princess," the bum with the guitar greeted loudly, not even pausing his playing.

She glanced up, startled. She sneered in his direction, open mouthed and nervous. She inched back towards the entrance, hoping for Andy to hurry.

"You got a request?" He tapped one worn boot against the pavement in expectation, watching her with that same intense gaze.

She was silent, frozen, unsure of what to do. She watched him, taking in the tousled hair and battered trench coat. His eyes glittered in the snowy glare of the morning, and his mouth quirked upwards, waiting for her answer. "S'matter? I don't bite. Hard," he growled, eyes roaming over her cinched coat, over her thin waist and slender stocking-clad legs.

She clutched her handbag closer, as if it would hide her, but her gaze never left him.

"Aw, come on now, Princess. I'm just trying to make an honest day's pay. You understand, right?"

Her lips twitched, gaping in a response that just wouldn't form. He chuckled, tossing the curtain of dark hair over one shoulder, satisfied that he'd gotten a rise out of her.

Andy appeared next to her, startling her back to reality. "Hey. This guy bothering you?" he asked, but she just stared wide-eyed up at her friend.

The bum laughed, his puff of breath visible, turning away from them, still strumming away lazily.

"Hey, dick head. Leave her the hell alone," Andy said, moving forward, finger pointed accusingly in the man's face. Andy had always been quick to stick up for her, even in college. She wasn't sure if it was chivalry or his propensity for a good wrestle.

The man paused, resting an elbow on the guitar's sleek belly. His eyes smoldered a deeper brown, his face twisting into a vengeful sneer.

"Andy, quit it," Claire said, gripping his elbow, suddenly fearful that the bum could pounce at any moment. "He didn't do anything."

The man's eyes were now on her, freezing her under their gaze again.

"Don't look at her. Don't talk to her," Andy snapped, folding his fingers in, flashing his fist at the man in warning.

The man snorted, nodding at the blonde journalist's fist. "You gonna do something about it?" He called Andy's bluff.

Predictably, counting his losses, he backed down, lowering his arm.

"Come on," Claire urged. "Lets just go." She ushered Andy away, following behind him down to the corner, away from the man's guitar tunes that had struck up again.

She glanced behind her, eyeing him once again. He stared back, watching them retreat.

She couldn't place the familiar melody, but it faded into the din of traffic and car horns, virtually inaudible as they crossed the busy streets to the Times headquarters.

-O-O-O-

Powder filled the small room, giving the air a dusty haze as the dancers readied themselves for performance. Already in costume, Claire pressed gently at her false eyelashes, setting them in place. The melody had been playing through her head all day, ever since they left the deli.

She still couldn't place it. It was so familiar, just out of her reach.

No matter how much she tried, her mind wouldn't rid itself of the vision of his eyes. Hot and hazel, stamped on her like they were searching for something, like they saw right through her.

She sighed, easing back into her chair, the tulle of her tutu poking into her thighs uncomfortably.

Her fingers probed at her itchy hairline, not wanting to loosen the tight knot at the back of her head, but needing to release the tension. She couldn't perform like this. Not un-focused and disoriented.

All at once it struck her.

_Phil Collins, Another Day In Paradise._

How fitting.

Her eyes flickered to her reflection in the mirror, makeup perfected, hair piece catching the light.

Before she could catch it, the burning in her throat took her breath and a tear threatened to ruin her work. It left a wet streak along her cheek when it fell, dragging a line of mascara with it.

Members of her company nearby sprung to the rescue, clinging at her, crowding her. The tears only fell heavier. She wanted to push them away, claw her way out of the theatre, toe shoes and all, and find him.

Apologize.

Gaze back into those wide, heated eyes.

She stood, pushing at her fellow dancers, ensuring them that she was ok. Everything was fine. The chaos around her was suddenly stifling when the stage manager called for places and her director loomed over her, grabbing her arms. She watched the dancers around her, trying to get a peek at the principal dancer have her little panic attack.

She inched along, hedged behind by her director, makeup artists pressing in her space to fix her image.

The cavern in her chest widened when they left her, on stage right, among the scenery and dimmed lights. The director whispered harshly in her ear, urging her to suck it up and swallow the tears. He threatened, pinching at her arm painfully before edging away into the darkness behind her.

She was a pretty face. A pawn. A costume. And he was no different. An object for people to poke at and laugh at. And she'd done nothing but stare at him. Like he was a caged animal. An untouchable bit of mud at the bottom of her boots.

The lights sparked brighter and she took her stance, arms high, chin up, ready to travel her paths once more. Her mind clicked into focus, and all thoughts went blank. Time to deliver. She leapt forward, spinning flawlessly into the light as she'd been trained.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time she saw him, he was plastered. He was slumped in an alleyway near the theatre. It was the coat that caught her attention. He was in a heap, shivering and groaning. It wasn't until she got closer that she saw why.

His eyes was blackened and swollen shut, blood oozing from his cheek.

Claire gasped at the sight of him, visibly retreating. This was too much. She couldn't handle it; she'd been wrong. She should've never thought to seek him out like this.

He let out a groan when he turned to her. He smiled, blood splattered over his teeth. She felt her insides churn, vomit rising in her throat.

"Hey, Princess."

Her hands were clamped over her mouth in shock and fear, ready to flee at any second. He gripped the piping along the building, hauling himself from the snow-caked sidewalk. In the street lights, his injuries looked a sick yellow color.

"I…" she stammered lowering her hands.

His hands stuffed themselves in his pockets, and he rocked back on his heels, appraising her, his dripping face and battered eye all but forgotten. As if it was normal.

"I want to help you," she blurted. Demanded.

He scoffed softly, tossing that long brown hair over one shoulder, blowing her off. "Look, Queenie. I don't need your help. Or anyone else's goddamn help."

He arched uncomfortably close to her, stopping the breath in her lungs before he turned and made to leave.

She grabbed his elbow on instinct, only thinking afterwards that he'd strike back. He didn't, but turned over his shoulder, glaring at her with his one good eye, still as piercing and sparkling hazel.

He didn't pull free.

"I don't need help," he sneered, "from a pampered, white bread princess like you. You've got everything. I've got shit."

She released him, fist falling to her side. "Really?" she challenged. "Don't act like you know me," she threatened.

"Oh, and you know me?" he said, voice raised, echoing against the walls around them. "Because the bum on the corner with a guitar, you know, we're all the same. We're all alcoholics with families we've failed, lives we've lost. Hell…" He stepped closer, looming over her, his shadow hulking and dark. "Maybe we've even killed someone."

She gasped, stepping from beneath his frame. He smelled thickly of alcohol and cigarette smoke, so much so that she nearly gagged at the cloud surrounding him.

"Leave me alone," he said. "You don't know what you're messing with, Queenie. We're fucked. We're all fucked. You feel bad only because you ignored me, but what you don't understand is I've been ignored my whole life. I've been treated like a shack of shit. I don't need, nor do I want you to try and make up for it by buying me a nice meal or whatever the fuck you wanted. Good people are delusional. They're only kind as long as it serves them and makes them feel better about their own sorry lives. So give It up. You're not fooling anyone."

She was frozen, standing there, eyes and throat burning like wildfire, trying to hold herself together.

"S'matter, Queenie? You gonna cry?" he taunted.

She wanted to slap him. Strangle him. But she stepped back, cowering down under the deep, raging fire of his gaze. She backed out of the alley in a rush, ducking her head low, hoping no one passing saw the streams along her face, smearing the makeup she'd applied that evening at the theatre. Her eyes stung fiercely with watery mascara, her false lashes drooping into her vision.

Once home, she washed it all away in the shower, scrubbing at her face. Maybe she'd be able to wipe herself away and start over.

-O-O-O-

She was alone.

Again. As always.

She clung tight to her bag, gripping the lumpy, stained scrap of fabric like her life depended on it. She'd become accustomed to carrying half her life with her in this bag. Clothes, wadded up inside, crushed crackers, a small tattered paperback novel, a notebook, pencils rubber banded together, a sketchpad, a bag of Captain Crunch that had worn a hole and now was reduced to crumbs in the bottom of the bag. It was all she had. All she needed.

Her wallet held only a few dollars and her ID. A faceless, nameless person she no longer recognized.

Her parka was fraying at the sleeves, the ribbed material becoming loose enough that she could bury her hands within, keeping warm from the frigid December night. She decided not to find shelter this evening. Becoming a regular at that place made her look suspicious. She'd become a charity case, and the last thing she needed or wanted was another person to tell her what a psychotic freak she was. Instead, the streets were fine. She'd find a soggy cardboard box near the pizzeria and curl up, safe there until dawn broke when she'd flee again like a shadow.

Before she could seek out proper accommodations, voices shouted behind her. Before she could run, she was pushed against the rough, sharp bricks of the alley way walls. She felt her face scrape the jagged stone, felt the warm blood on her cheek. Like a defense mechanism, she clutched at her bag, sinking to the floor, hoping maybe if she didn't move, they'd leave her alone.

But they grabbed her arms, shouting in her face, pinning her down in the cold snow. Her temple banged painfully against the pavement and silver sparks blurred her vision.

Her bag was ripped from her arms. She reached out frantically, trying to find it, trying to stop them. A sharp blade at her forearm stopped her, and she heard herself cry out, echoing like an animal's call.

Then all at once it was over.

All at once they were gone, with her bag and everything she owned.

She was crying, she could feel it. But the ringing in her ears drowned out any noise she might've made.

She couldn't move. Another person was here now, crouching down, trying to grasp at her chin. She twisted away violently.

"You're hurt. Please let me help you," the voice pleaded, soft and warm and bass.

Unfamiliar, but so comforting. Like no sound she'd ever heard.

Like honey.

She swallowed thickly, peering up at the man with sandy blonde hair and green eyes, bright even in the dim lamplight of the streets.

He was squatted next to her, wearing a shiny blue jogging suit and clean white sneakers. His hands were up in surrender, eyes soft and warm. She felt something unfamiliar in her stir at the sight of him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said softly. "Come on. Let me help you."

Her spine shook when she leaned into him weakly, unable to hold herself upright anymore. He welcomed her weight, supporting her easily.

He urged her to stand, and helped her to do so.

"Where do you live?" he asked, tugging her good arm over his strong shoulders.

She stared gaping into his rich green eyes, mouth open, slowly forming a response. Every word was calculated.

"I don't."

He merely nodded his understanding and helped her to take a few steps. She followed, Chuck Taylors scraping along in the snow. When she stumbled, he hoisted her easily into his arms, carrying her like a child.

She felt small, fragile. But warm. So warm clutched in this strange man's arms. She buried her nose into the smooth windbreaker material of his track suit, soaking up all the beautiful warmness she could, heedless of the blood on her cheek possibly smearing into his expensive exercise clothing.

Andy let her rest there, against his shoulder while he searched out a hotel or something of the kind to take her to. She needed to get off the streets. He hugged her closer, unconsciously pressing his nose into her dark, tangled hair, trying to transfer his body heat to her frail, shivering frame.

How long had she been out there? By herself? Forgotten?

He'd noticed it in her eyes. She was beautiful. She was young, maybe only a year or two younger than himself. In those deep, cavernous eyes there was a longing to be held, to be helped. To be known.

He wasn't sure exactly what had possessed him to pay for her night's stay at a clean, tidy hotel, but the manager didn't complain when he saw the girl's injuries and led them to a room straight away. Andy asked for a bucket of ice, water, and the necessary supplies to clean up the girl's face and arm.

He set her on the bed, watching her grow rigid again when his arms left her. She sat upright on the edge of the bed, clutching at her arm that the muggers had slashed. He could already see blood through her threadbare parka.

The thing swallowed her, more than several sizes too large. It made her seem disturbed, hidden.

Her dark hair fell into her eyes, shielding her face.

"Hey," he whispered, kneeling close. "We've got to get this coat off, ok? I need to look at your arm."

She let him pull the material away, listening as it crumpled nosily behind her, leaving her in a black sweater and a tattered skirt. Tentatively, always watching her for a reaction, he pushed at the sleeve of her sweater.

She never would've let someone touch her like this. Speak to her. But his hands were kind and slow. As she watched him, her breath was calmed and the pain didn't seem so strong. Their eyes met a moment just before he pushed up the sleeve over her elbow, revealing the red gash.

She didn't flinch, though she watched him glance away in disgust.

"Its not so bad," he said. "Your coat helped you out."

Her eyes followed him as he sifting through the first aid kit nearby and selected the roll of bandages. Unmoving, she let him wrap her wound, marveling at his tender fingers, careful not to hurt her, and oh so watchful should he cause her to pull away.

Slowly, she met his gaze again, open mouthed. He smiled, and she was sure that'd she'd never seen anything like it. Nothing so bright or perfect.

He moved to the first aid kit again, fishing for a small bandage for her cheek.

"What's your name?" he asked, his back turned.

Several seconds ticked away, and she floundered. What was It again? Should she lie?

"Allison," she whispered, gaze falling to the yellow lamp on the nightstand.

"Allison," he repeated. She'd never heard anyone say her name like that. Like it was the most precious word in the English language. "That's pretty. I'm Andrew. You can call me Andy, if you'd like."

Pretty. No one had ever called her…

His fingers were on her again, this time at her cheek, pressing the adhesive against her bruised skin.

She heard her breath hitch, certain that he'd noticed. He paused, looking down at her. "You ok?" he asked, sounding sincere.

She nodded once.

He stepped back, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Her eyes bored into the stain her blood had left on his shoulder.

"You can sleep here tonight," he said. "I've already paid the bill. Just make sure you're out by noon. No one will bother you, and you'll have a warm bed. A shower." He rummaged in his pocket, tugging out a fifty dollar bill. "And breakfast, or whatever you'd like to eat." He laid the bill on the nightstand.

She followed his movements, watching, making sure he was opaque and real.

"Um…" he murmured, leaning over the nightstand, tugging a sheet of paper free from the pad there and scribbling several numbers down. "This is me at work. Call me there tomorrow if you need anything."

She searched him, wondering just what the catch was. What would she have to give him for such kindness? How could she repay him?

He seemed to sense her questions,, and answered with a smile. "You don't owe me anything. Just stay safe, and warm. Make sure you change the bandage on your arm, at least before you leave in the morning to make sure its clean and doesn't get infected. Maybe we'll see each other again, Allison."

He'd said it again. That magical word. Like cotton candy on his lips.

She watched his leave. He paused at the door, left hand lingering there a moment. She saw the flash of gold on his hand. He smiled kindly, and waved before slipping out into the hall, bringing the door shut behind him.

An angel.

He had to have been an angel.

Nothing else described the kindness, the warmth, and the light that exuded from him.

She blinked, each time opening her eyes to find herself still in this clean, quaint little hotel suite that was all hers for the night. She was safe. She was traveling, she imagined, as she burrowed into the thick duvet and pressed sheets. She was in London, or Spain. Somewhere swanky. Unexplored.

She knew, of course, that this was only New York, and just outside were the same dark and unpredictable streets that she'd braved the past year and a half. But she'd been visited by love that night, and that was beyond imagination or comprehension.


	4. Chapter 4

He couldn't get her out his head. He couldn't even write. He couldn't even stitch simple stats together to form any semblance of an interesting news article. He stared blankly at his notes, only seeing meaningless symbols.

He raked his fingers through his hair and cursed out loud. His chair squealed when he leaned it back. He tossed his glasses aside. The damned things gave him a headache.

His fingers twisted the gold band on his left hand. If he pressed hard enough, worked up enough friction, it eventually become molten and dissolve. He'd be free.

Work had been hell this morning, succeeding the hellish night before. After he left Allison, he'd returned home to Martia sprawled on the couch with an empty bottle of wine. The twins were already in bed, tucked up peacefully in their matching pajamas and under their matching quilts.

But once Martia gained enough consciousness to slide from her position in the living room and slink to the bathroom, she'd seen the blood on his clothes and demanded an answer. She'd flung back the shower curtain, shoving the crimson-stained windbreaker in his face.

He lied and said he'd caught a low branch on his run. She'd been incoherent enough to accept his answer without checking for the wound. But she wasn't finished. Her alcohol binge had continued as he finished his shower, and when he was tugging on his pajamas pants, she'd stumbled in the bedroom screaming about how he hadn't cared enough to bring the twins to their first day of school, ranting about how he'd left right after dinner for his run and didn't return until nearly midnight.

He tried to get her quiet, but the children woke up, both crying his name from their bedroom while he was cornered by a raving banshee.

Eventually, he quieted his daughters and sat with them til they fell asleep, combing his fingers through their sandy blonde hair that matched his own. Martia had been asleep by then too, draped over the length of their bed.

He had slept on the couch, and the springs poked at his back relentlessly.

He leaned back in his office chair, scrubbing his palms over his eyes. It was almost noon and he had yet to write anything. His editor was going to have his hide if he didn't…

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

He dove for the phone without a second thought. "Andrew Clarke, New York Times," he answered.

He heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end and knew immediately that it was who he'd been waiting for all day.

"Hi," she said softly, shyly. "I just…I just want to thank you for…everything."

He could hear the din of traffic in the background. She was at a payphone.

He sat bolt upright now, gripping at the edge of his desk with white knuckles. "No problem at all. Did you sleep well?"

"I did," she said. She sounded so grateful, and like she'd been to heaven and back. Then her tone changed. "Look, I don't know why you did that. I don't know who you are or even…"

He stopped her. "I did it because it was right."

She was silent. He could almost hear her considering, deciding on which words to use. "I just.." He heard her swallow. "No one's ever been nice to me…like that. Ever. And I…" Her voice was soft, like she was keeping a secret, shielding the phone from someone in earshot.

"You deserved it, Allison. You did. You deserve that. Anyone would."

He'd silenced her again, but he could still hear her breath.

"So, what did you have for breakfast?" He wasn't ready to hang up yet.

"Eggs. And bacon. And coffee." He recognized her appreciation for each word as she spoke. She could say everything in very few words. It was a gift, and a beautiful one.

He smiled. "You have enough left for lunch?"

"Yes, and probably dinner tonight."

"Good." He peeked over the edge of his cubicle, watching his editor's office door for any sign of life.

"I have a question," he said. "Maybe silly, but…since your bag was stolen, was there anything of value in there? Anything you'd like to have back?"

She laughed softly, really only a light breath. "Nothing of value. Well…monetary at least."

"Sentimental?"

There was a pause, almost like she was ashamed to tell him. "My sketchbook."

"Your sketchbook?" he repeated. "That's easy. I mean…I won't be able to get yours back, but I can at least buy you a new one."

"No, no. I don't want you to go through…" she stammered. It was the fastest she'd spoken the entire conversation.

He chuckled. "Please. It's a stack of paper. Its not sheets of gold."

But he knew it probably was the same to her.

"Please meet me for lunch tomorrow and I'll have you a new sketchbook."

There was more silence. He thought her time might've run out, but she finally spoke. "No. I can't do that…I…"

"Allison," he said.

There was another intake of breath. He found himself reveling in the sound. Memorizing it. "Ok," she spoke, her tone abrasive. "The diner on 17th and 2nd tomorrow at noon."

The line rattled and the dial tone buzzed, indicating she'd hung up.

-O-O-O-

Their laughter echoed around the streets as they walked, clinging to one another, someone passing a cigarette down the line. Eventually, her friends departed, catching cabs or turning in the direction of home, leaving Claire alone to head towards her own apartment.

She traveled several blocks, past several women and men curling up to sleep for the night on boxes or tattered blankets, on benches and in parks. She'd never noticed. She'd never been aware of just how many of them dwelled in the city. Until she met him.

The man with the brown eyes, with the harsh tone and unforgettable voice.

Who was he? Did she imagine him?

Loud shouting made her jump back suddenly. In the alley, a commotion stirred, bodies banging against the walls, hits thrown. She slid around the corner, hiding there and watching. He was there again, this time with a switchblade, arm swinging forward, threatening any of the other men to come forward.

She gasped, pressing herself further against the wall, turning away from the scene.

She listened to the threats, the punches, the shouts of pain. And then it was over. Like a storm, the chaos had come and gone.

When she peeked up from her spot, he was alone and slumped against the wall, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing over his fingers. He met her eyes, but this time they were different. They were far away and clouded, as if they'd forgotten who she was. His breathing was labored, heaving in his chest. His hands shook as he tried to staunch the blood flow.

This time she did vomit. She wretched forward, spewing up her dinner, just missing her designer shoes.

She wiped at her face with her coat sleeve. Her sob was loud in the quiet streets as she tried to remember how to breathe. She looked back towards him, still there, still staring.

"Do you always hang around in alleyways?" he asked, his voice rasped and quiet.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped forward, hoisting his arm over her shoulder. She struggled to get him to his feet.

He groaned in pain, tugging back her down. She groaned under his weight and struggled to stay standing.

"Come on, stand up," she pressed, pushing him forward so he was upright.

His head hung forward and she was worried that he'd gone unconscious until he took a step forward, edging across the pavement.

It took three times as long as it should have to get him to her apartment. The doorman appraised them both, but said nothing, watching them the entire time they waited for the elevator.

She laid him gently on the bed, dropping his arm from around her neck. She watched him there, motionless against the bed. His arms laid in a T, hair plastered to his face. His coat was torn at the shoulder and wet down the front with liquid she was sure was alcohol. She panicked. She had no way of patching this guy up and she suspected that the wound was worse than it seemed through his clothing.

She hated blood.

Blood made her cringe.

She cursed out loud and mussed her hair, trying to gather the resolve to do this.

Then she noticed it. Her scarf. Her red scarf that she'd dropped weeks ago. She hadn't been sure exactly where, but somewhere between the theatre and the apartment, it had dropped from her hand in hurry to balance her coffee and apply lipstick. It was already frayed and worn, threads broken and the edges cinched. Something stirred in her. A warmness, and for a moment she confused as to why she'd be excited that he'd stolen her scarf.

The warmth sent adrenaline fast through her veins and she leaned forward, gripping his coat to pull it off his shoulders.

He was barely conscious when she pulled him up to a sitting position and tugged his shirt from his jeans and pulled it over his head. The gash was not too deep, but ran the length of his shoulder, only a few inches away from his collar bone and Claire shuddered at the thought that whoever had done it had been going for his throat. His chest was bare now, and she could see other scars there, peppered along his abdomen and arms. Rivulets dripped down his arm and his shoulder in dark crimson streaks. When supporting his weight became too much for her, she was forced to lay him back against the quilt, and watch the blood leak onto her bedding.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't.

She wanted to gag. To throw up all over again.

Her bathroom was a mess, the counter littered with pins and a curling iron, and more makeup products than was probably considered normal even to Madonna. She ducked into the cabinets, pushing through the bins of hair products, mascaras, and nail polishes until she found the roll of bandages

When she returned to him, he was somewhat lucid. At least his eyes were open. Without permission or warning, she wiped at the blood with a damp cloth, her teeth sinking into her lips to keep from wretching at the thin pink tone the blood took when it soaked into the cloth.

He was watching her every move. She could tell.

She could hear his soft breath, feel it against her skin as she worked, smell the thick scent of alcohol.

It occurred to her that he hadn't said one single thing this whole time.

"Tell me your name," he whispered.

She met his eyes for only seconds before continuing to blot at his skin. "Claire."

He made a soft grunting noise and she was worried that she'd hurt him, but he spoke again. "I'm John."

She wasn't sure what to say, so she just nodded stupidly. "Hi John."

When she finished wiping away the excess blood, she worked at the cut with an antibacterial, unsure of what exactly she was doing. But she figured that if it was antibacterial, it couldn't hurt. He winced beneath her hand and she apologized softly.

"I'm going to leave when you done," he said matter-of-factly.

She ignored his remark to ask a more pertinent question. "Why do you have my scarf?"

John suddenly became aware of his lack of clothing and brought his free hand up over his chest, shielding the scars that she'd already seen.

Gently, she taped a bandage over his shoulder, pressing her pink painted nails just under his throat. His eyes watched her, like he was surveying her hands, trying to memorize their movements.

"You dropped it," he answered.

She glanced up at him, eyebrow raised. "I know that," she answered.

He sighed and pulled away from her when she finished, pushing her away to stand.

"What are you doing?" she asked as he bent to pick up his shirt and coat.

"Leaving," he answered as if it was obvious.

"No. You need to sleep. I'll make you something to eat. Just…"

He turned to her. His eyes blazed a dark shade of whiskey and she swallowed what she'd been about to say. "You don't want this, Princess. Trust me." He gestured at her with his handful of clothes. "You're better off not getting involved."

When he turned his back to her again, she noticed a long, white scar running the length of his back. She shivered. It was years old, probably forgotten.

"No," she said.

He looked at her. "What?"

"I said no. You're not leaving."

He scoffed at her and smirked. "You think I'm going to cater to you like everyone else? You're going to give me orders and I'll obey? I'm your charity case so everyone will see what goody-goody you are?"

"No, that's not what I mean. I'm trying to help," she said sincerely, a hand extended.

He glanced around the room, surveying it. On her walls were large framed watercolor paintings of the Eiffel tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the rivers of Venice. On her nightstand was a lamp with a ruffled shade, an alarm clock, and a copy of Lolita. The furniture was white wood, all clean and bright and new. She hadn't lived here long, he noted. He wondered when exactly she'd moved to New York. He couldn't recall when he started seeing her posters around the city, but then again he hadn't exactly tried to notice. It just sort of happened. Her beauty was magnetic.

The quilt on her bed was pink and clean white, except where his blood had created a nasty stain at the foot of it. She'd have to buy a new one; there certainly wasn't any way to get rid of it. He'd left his stamp. He was here now forever.

His eyes fell back to her, watching the way her lips quirked and pursed.

They were from different worlds. The princess and the pauper. It had never been more evident to him than when he now stood at the center of her bedroom in her pristine, uptown apartment.

"I'll make some hot chocolate," she offered. "Would you like anything to eat?"

He swallowed. "A bologna sandwich."

Her head cocked sideways and she smiled. His heart beat quickened.

"Really? I can fix anything," she said. "What would you like?"

"Bread and water," he said. He didn't realize he'd smiled back until she stepped forward, whacking his good arm gently with the back of her hand.

"One bologna sandwich, coming up." She exited the room, leaving him to redress in private.


	5. Chapter 5

He checked to make sure his pockets were still full, finding each dime bag just where it had been. He'd dropped his switchblade in the alley, but still had his money and his dope. When he exited her bedroom, she was at the stove, lighting the burner to heat a kettle of water.

She glanced up at him and smiled again. He wished she'd stop doing that. He enjoyed it way more than he should.

"I'm gonna change into some pajamas. You can make yourself comfortable. The TV is in there." She pointed through the archway into a modern furnished living room.

She went into the bedroom and closed the door.

He flopped onto her sofa, boots and all. Of course, she had those stupid throw pillow things. Ruffled, sad excuses for pillows. He tossed them away in a pile on the floor and pulled the crocheted blanket from the back of the couch.

Once he'd gotten her TV on, he flipped several channels until she returned. She was wearing plain, rose pink silk pajamas. He rolled his eyes. Pink.

Her curly red head ducked into the fire place to light it, heaving a few logs into it until it blazed brightly. Her kettle screeched and she cursed. He smirked at that, watching her bustle around the kitchen for the hot chocolate powder.

Eventually, she returned with his sandwich and two mugs on a tidy little tray, setting it before him on the coffee table.

He offered his thanks with noisy slurping and tearing into the sandwich, sending crumbs sprinkling everywhere.

She eyed him over the rim of her mug and he chuckled.

"So did you grow up in new York?' she asked.

He turned, eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged helplessly. "Just making conversation."

"No," he said sharply. "I didn't. I grew up in Shermer, Illinois."

"You're kidding." She gawked. "I went to Hartgrove."

He snorted and arched his eyebrows. "Of course. Private school."

She pursed her lips and sipped her drink. "How'd you get here?"

He turned to glare at her sharply. "You are ask a lot of questions don't you?"

She shrugged again. "Excuse me for being friendly."

He sniffed distastefully, munching on the last bit of crust from his sandwich.

"You're a ballerina," he said.

Now she glared. "How do you know so much about me?"

He pointed at the photos on her mantle. One was of her and her brother when she was younger. She was dressed in a glittering pink tutu and ballet slippers, squished against his side in one of his massive bear hugs. Next was a photo of her in high school with several other dancers, taken after a show. Last was her most recent headshot. "You must be really vain to have a shrine of yourself."

Her nose wrinkled and her lips parted, and he waited for whatever insult she could come up with. "You're an asshole," she sneered quickly.

"Sue me," he snapped, flicking his crumb-dusted fingers towards her carpet.

"Look, why do you hang around so often? At the theatre? I see you there all the time. Are you a stalker?"

He smirked wryly. "You'd expect that wouldn't you? Even if I was, I'm not the one who invited a weirdo stalker to their apartment, am I?"

She scoffed, turning away to watch the flames in the fireplace. She tried to look like she had brushed off the comment, but he could tell she was bothered. As if she was really considering the possibility of him being an axe murderer.

"Don't worry, Princess. I lost my switchblade in the alley."

She looked back towards him and sipped again. "So why do you have my scarf?"

"You dropped it," he repeated.

"So you didn't think to give it back to me?"

He'd kept it because her scent on it was warm and dense, like lilacs or jasmine or whatever else chicks wore these days.

"I only found it a day ago under some crates by Martin's Deli. How was I supposed to know it was yours?" he lied.

"I love Martin's Deli," she said randomly, making him blink.

"So what? You want me to take you on a date or something?"

She rolled her eyes. "Why are you such a jerk?"

"Why are you such a snob?"

"I haven't been anything but nice to you!" she said, voice raised, leaning forwards.

"Aw, plug it up, Princess," he said, pressing just as close.

She jeered, turning away and crossing her arms over her chest. She glanced at him again, and he noticed her eyes were a strange green-blue color, with flecks of gold. He could drown in them. In the firelight, they blazed.

Before either could say another word, those same blue-green-gold eyes fluttered close, her dark eyelashes like feathers on her cheeks. And he leaned forward, pressing his lips softly against hers. It was better than anything…anything he'd ever experience, and he never wanted to pull away. Her pouty pink mouth against his. She let out a breath, changing the angle of the kiss. It warmed his insides and churned his stomach.

He reached up to cup her neck, but she backed off. He watched with blazing eyes as she drew her knees to her chest, burying her face against them until only her curly carrot-top hair was the only thing visible. He heard her draw in a breath and let it go. Then he realized she was crying. Quietly.

She sandwiched a hand between her face and her knees, wiped at her eyes with her slender fingers.

She shook her head at some unspoken question, curls bouncing wildly.

He wasn't exactly sure what to do, what to say. So he stood. He retreated to her bedroom, tip-toeing along the immaculate tile flooring. The door clicked shut behind him and he pressed his back against it.

He cursed under his breath, knuckles white and fingers curled into fists.

Morning couldn't come quick enough.

-O-O-O-

She wasn't coming. She wasn't.

He beat his fist against the newspaper vending machine near the door of the diner. It was already 12:15, and he had only an hour for lunch.

Andy cursed under his breath, shifting impatiently.

Among the crowd before him, he saw her mess of dark hair. She hurried down the street, shuffling along in her usual long skirt and dirty socks and baggy black sweater.

"Allsion!" he shouted on instinct and he watched her cringe, hunching her shoulders.

He snatched up the plastic shopping bag from the art supply store, jogging after her to catch up.

"Hey Allison!" he tried again and she rounded on him when he grabbed her elbow, her eyes dark and lined with purple and black circles from lack of sleep.

"Leave me alone!" she snapped.

"Allison," he repeated. This wasn't her. This wasn't the frail, helpless woman he'd found on the streets. This was a hard shell of her, skin thick and eyes dark. She was frightening to look at, eyes almost black.

"I don't understand," he said, shoving the bag between them, either as offering or protection, he wasn't sure.

"Leave. Me. Alone," she repeated thickly. "I don't want to talk to you, or see you."

"Wha…?" He blanched.

She turned, a dark figure retreating in the thick crowd of people.

She couldn't depend on him. She couldn't take his charity. He was dangerous, and married. And a liar. She'd made it up in her mind that he'd been dishonest, listening to that depth of her soul that was darkest and most malicious.

They'd told her so. The ones that told her she was worthless. The ones that told her she was inhuman. The voices she listened to at night before sleeping. Her closest and most honest companions.

She found an alley, dark even in the noon sun, covered by awnings and strung with laundry lines tied from rusting, creaking air conditioner units. And there she pulled the weapon free from her pocket. The shining blade that would be her release.

She'd be free from Them and him. She'd be gone. Of no consequence.

And what perfect timing. Her blood would run in rivers against the white snow, a haunting contrast as the sun glinted off its refined crystals.

She'd drop to her knees, watching herself, gutted like a fish. It was really beautiful to imagine, and probably horrifying to perform and experience. It made it all the more intriguing.

She tugged her sleeve up around her elbow, seeing the gash where he'd patched her up so neatly. It was still fresh, just barely scabbed. She'd done away with the bandage. She wasn't one for shielding herself from injury. She'd rather it rub against the course fibers of her sweater, wearing the skin red and raw.

She positioned her razor at an angle, perpendicular to her scar, and breathed. Carefully. Carefully.

"Don't," a voice said behind her.

Screams sounded in her head, like sirens. _Go away._

She turned, not seeing Andrew, as she'd expected, but another blonde man, with thick-rimmed glasses and a child's face.

He was dressed in a business suit, tie and all. His hand was extended, as if to stop her actions.

She spat a thick wad of saliva in his direction, watching it sail and land on his shiny black loafers.

"Come on," he said, unphased. "You don't want to do this. Put it down."

She stood, deliberately and in three sharp shifts. She wielded her weapon towards him, only a small razor blade from the hardware shop, but still it glinted viciously in the light filtering through the awnings above.

He stepped back, holding both hands up in surrender.

"Trust me," he said. His eyes showed the depth of experience, and it made her lower her hand, but only slightly.

She was through trusting people.

"I'm Brian," he offered lamely. "And you are?" She noticed he had a slight lisp, even at his age.

Did he think this was a tea party? She released her weapon, slinging at him furiously, elbow popping at the force. The tiny blade did not damage, but clattered to the ground soundlessly.

She watched his mind race as he tried to pick out a new tactic. "Is there someone we can call about this? Family?"

Behind him, she saw another figure approach. Andrew, dressed in his work attire, still clutching that mysterious plastic bag. He'd run here, though he didn't seem out of breath.

Her vision swirled, and she was gone. She dropped, collapsing on buckled knees, in a dark heap.

Andrew, though further away, made it to her before Brian had time to move.

"Allison!" he shouted, shaking her, but she didn't move. She heard him, felt him, but her defenses had taken over. She'd hidden herself, drawing into the darkness again. She did move a hand to her hair, to tug at it, grasping and plucking a few hairs from their roots. She felt the blood on her fingernails, and her heartbeat eased a bit at the release.

His arms enveloped her again, whispering to her words that were clouded under the haze of her hysteria.

"You know her?" Brian heaved, eyes wide as saucers.

Andrew nodded. "Yeah. Sort of, I think…"

He glanced back at the woman, rubbing his hands comfortingly over her arms. She shivered, tugging at her dark hair with clenched fists. Her heard a pained whimper, high in her throat.

"Honey…" he whispered close to her ear so this strange new person couldn't hear. "Its alright. Ease up…"

She balled the fabric of his jacket in her fist, though her eyes were still clenched closed. She parted her lips, gasping aloud, pained and strangled. She couldn't breathe, he realized, and panicked.

As soon as he made a plan of action to get the man nearby to run for help, her breathing evened and she reeled away from him, planting herself back on the pavement on her palms.

Her eyes opened slowly in a flutter.

"You ok?" he whispered.

Her lips quivered and she lurched forward like she was about to vomit, but instead clutched him, burying her clammy face at the crook of his neck.

He rubbed at her back soothingly.

He glanced up at the stranger, eyes still wide behind his glasses and mouth open in shock.

"Is…is she…she ok?" he stammered.

Andrew nodded, moving to stand and lift her with him. She obliged, though she still clung to him, arms snaked around his neck, breathing heavily against his collar.

He turned back to her. "Allison," he said. "I don't know what to do. You have to help me. Do you have meds, or something? Somewhere you can go?"

She shuddered at the words meds, memories flashing of white walls and restrictive jackets, little paper cups that held her drowsy destination within them.

She didn't respond, but hung there in his arms like a ragdoll.

He cursed, looking at Brian helplessly.

"I…" the man spoke. "I know a center on 23rd street. She could get some help."

Andrew nodded, throwing an arm over her body and helping her walk towards the end of the alley towards the street.

-O-O-O-

AN: Whoa. This is some serious angst. Sorry about that. Go eat some chocolate. Make yourself happy again after all of this.

I really was holding off on putting Brian in here, because he's one of my least favorite characters. Sorry, Big Bri. You're sort of under-appreciated around here. I loved writing for him. He's interesting. That's the wonderful thing about these characters. They're all so layered and dimensional, even if we at first consider them un-relatable.

And I hope I've portrayed Allison correctly here. She's crazy, and that's something maybe the movie didn't elaborate on so much. There's a reason she's called the basketcase, and without medical help or medication, I wanted to explore what that'd be like. So there she is, in all her madness.

Please please please review. I know you're reading this. I can see how many of you visit the story, so please be kind and review! Tell me what you like, what you don't like. The suggestion box is open.


	6. Chapter 6

She wasn't exactly sure what had possessed her to buy it. Maybe it was that it was gleaming so brashly in the window. Maybe it was a little pity, mixed with her own miserable, vain need. Whatever the case, the curvy case bumped uncomfortably against her spine as she marched towards the theatre.

She knew where he'd be.

After their kiss that night, he'd left in the morning without waking her or so much as a sound. Nothing had been discussed. Everything ignored. She needed to discuss. Or at least, that would be her excuse to see him again.

She wondered what was so attractive about him. They were on completely different planets. They could never fully merge, never completely understand the other.

Maybe it was her desperate need of a friend, and the knowledge that he needed one as well.

When she reached him, he was lying spwaled on his side on a mess of flattened boxes covered with a tattered blanket. She could've sworn there was a brightness in his face when he saw her.

"Merry Christmas," she said, holding the hard case out in front of her.

He glanced up, scowling. "What's that?"

She glanced side to side, only just so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. Maybe this was a bad idea. "I thought it might be obvious." She tried to be sarcastic. "Its for you."

"For what?"

She sighed, crouching to her knees and laying the case flat against the soggy snow that covered the ground of his usual alleyway.

She unbuckled the locks, folding the top open. The guitar inside was beautiful and pristine, made of rosy colored wood that reminded him of the shade of her flushed cheeks.

"For what?" he repeated, leaning forward on instinct towards the instrument, but still determined to find her catch. His guitar had been stolen a few days back at the Salvation Army. He wondered how she had known.

"For Christmas," she answered.

He thought back to previous Christmases. He hadn't even known today was the day; he'd all but forgotten it existed on these streets. When he still lived in Shermer, Christmases were gifted with cigarettes in opened and flattened boxes, or a spared beating. Sometimes nothing at all. This was the only gift he'd ever received that could be considered such, and the most beautiful piece of work he'd ever seen. His old guitar had been battered, cheaply bought and horribly out of tune.

His fingers plucked the strings, emitting a beautiful chord and he smiled.

"I can't take this. This must've cost you…"

"Shut up. Nevermind that. Its for you," she insisted, and her smile was so honest that he couldn't argue any further.

"So, will you let me buy you dinner?"

He looked up, grimacing again. "Why?"

She rolled her eyes, sitting back on her heels. "Because, ok? I…"

He eyed her. "You what?"

"I…want to…see you," she blurted shamefully, looking down at her knees.

It wasn't romantic, wasn't misted with the fragrance of that drop-jaw-tear-jerking-amazing-disasterous kiss they'd shared. She was pleading. He saw it in her eyes. The hunger and complete loneliness. He never thought he'd see a woman like he look so utterly sad.

He waited, wondering if she'd give up and leave, taking her gift with her. "I made you cry," he said.

She shook her head. "No. I did that. I started it, and I'm sorry. I'm asking if we can just have dinner? Is that ok with you?" She was giving him an option.

He considered. He was starving. The last meal he'd had was a stolen apple from one of the fruit stands, washed down with a beer, purchased by a lucky donation. Not much of a Christmas feast, but then he didn't really know what those were anyways.

He couldn't refuse the look in her eyes. "Martin's Deli?"

She smiled, and he couldn't help but reciprocate.

She locked up the guitar and handed it over. He slung it over his shoulder proudly.

"You really shouldn't have done that," he said, though not accusingly.

"Why not?" she asked. Her voice was so hopeful and certain that he couldn't argue.

In the deli, she encouraged him to order anything he liked, and he did. She poked at her salad while he ripped into his foot long sandwich.

"So no fancy Christmas family get together?" he asked.

She looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Um. No. Not this year."

He didn't have to ask her to continue. He knew she would. "My family all lives in Chicago and….I couldn't get a break from the show. Christmas is so busy. And…" She glanced away, looking out the window at the people passing on the street. "My mother and father divorced back in February. She's in a clinic now,"

Her eyes fell shamefully to her salad and she tossed a piece of Romaine aside. He hated to watch that look on her face for the second time this afternoon.

He wasn't really sure how to respond, so he continued eating. Luckily, she picked up the conversation again. "They'd never been happy together. It was just a matter of time."

He shrugged. "At least you're out of the house. You don't have to deal with picking a side."

Her lips pursed and she looked uncertain. "Do you want to stay at my place tonight?" She was offering.

The idea of a warm bed and a bright fire wasn't unappealing and the company wasn't horrible. "OK," he said simply. "You don't have to sleep on the couch this time."

She looked up sharply.

"I mean. Its your bed, was all I was trying to say…because…"

She was smiling, and then laughing, covering her mouth with one hand.

He chuckled back. "You're laughing at me."

She shook her head, curls bouncing. "No I'm not." Something else must've struck her, because her head arched back and her laugh bounced from the ceiling.

He wasn't so much laughing at his slip up anymore as he was laughing at her, her cheeks bright, freckles apparent.

She snorted, and then looked embarrassed, shocked, and her eyes went wide as he laughed even harder. "Shut up!" she said through giggles.

-O-O-O-

Once in the halls of her apartment building, her hand slipped into his. He caught the shy smile and didn't pull away. He wasn't exactly sure why not.

He deposited his guitar case and small bag of clothes in her living room.

Several brown boxes lay open on her dining room table, colored paper spilling out over the surface. "Christmas presents," she said, passing into her bedroom. He followed.

"From your boyfriend?"

She glared, picking up a pile of clothes from the bed. "Family."

He noticed she'd gotten a new bedspread. This one was jewel toned and seemed to cast a different color to the eggshell walls. It was some sort of shiny silky material, and he couldn't help but run his fingers over it.

She loaded her hamper, piled high with pastel colored cardigans and skirts. She passed him, going back out into the living room and opened the door just left of the fridge. He figured it was a pantry, but it housed a small washer and dryer. Her kitchen was small enough that he could linger by the table and watch her load her laundry.

He picked through the boxes on the table, finding several stupid girl novels, makeup, a gift certificate to some store with a French name that he couldn't pronounce, an art-deco style ballerina figurine that was really ugly and clashed with her other decorations around the tiny apartment.

"These are some shit gifts," he said and she scoffed from a few feet away. The washer now roared and she had to almost shout over it.

"Were you expecting them to buy me a new car? A Degas painting maybe?"

Claire's family had never really gotten her. Never really tried. But that was how it was with richies. Always the surface.

He stuffed a wad of colored paper bag into the box. Bored, he sauntered to the living room and plopped down on the couch.

His new guitar fit easily in his hands, the wood sleek beneath his roughened fingers. He strummed lazily, just getting the feel of her. She sounded beautiful.

He found a tune, letting himself play by ear for a moment until he figured out the right chords and strummed away effortlessly.

She perked up from her laundry basket, hearing the sweet notes from the other room. She picked out the song immediately.

_Time After Time. Cindy Lauper. _

She'd never really considered how the song would sound on an acoustic guitar, but it was gorgeous.

She eased the door closed and turned to the living room, watching him through the archway. His head bobbed, scraggly hair flopping into his eyes.

She couldn't keep herself from smiling or entering the room, almost in a trance. She knelt before him, on her knees, listening.

She watched his fingers, working expertly on the frets, long and slender and practiced. When he finished, he tossed his hair from his eyes and smirked at her in that sarcastic way.

He started plucking out a different pattern of chords. "Maybe this is more your taste," he said smiling. She didn't recognize the song until he started to sing, in an obnoxiously high and nasaled voice, obviously teasing. "Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me, I think they're ok!"

She reached across him for a pillow and smacked him. "Asshole," she said laughing.

She was standing now, bent unceremoniously over him after he blocked her blow with one hand, holding tight to his precious new instrument. Their faces were close enough that she could easily lean in.

Awkwardly, their eyes locked and flicked away from one another. She was caught off guard when he sighed heavily, like he was pissed off at something, before he bent forward and caught her bottom lip between his in a sloppy kiss.

She didn't remember him setting his guitar aside, but her legs coursed with shviers when he grabbed the back of her knees to pull her into his lap. She fell against him in a heap, with an ungraceful flop. His lips crashed just as sloppily against her jawline, nibbling at the skin beneath her ear. She gave a little whimper, which fueled him on but caused her to pull back. She couldn't do this. She wouldn't lose herself like this if it was cheap and meaningless. She needed to know.

His chin was cradled in her hands while she inspected him. He knew exactly what she was looking for. Something he couldn't promise. Something he couldn't give. So he averted his eyes, staring at the arm of the cream colored couch.

Her fingers touched his lips, and he was forced to look back into her pretty brown eyes.

She looked sad again. But it was different. She gave him this smile, that was so expectant and said everything she wished she could. She was waiting. The way she looked at him, he actually had the confidence that he could wait too. That all the shit in his life would be wiped away by her will, if only he was in this for the right reasons. In that moment, he wished he could give it to her. The world on a string. Because she deserved it and so much more.

But he could never promise her anything. He'd never be anything. He'd come to this conclusion long ago. One look, however great her faith was for him, didn't change things.

When she pulled back, gently extracting herself from his arms, he'd never felt so empty.

-O-O-O-

Christmas morning had been picture perfect. The girls both tried out their new bicycles, which he'd slaved all night assembling. Martia had been wonderful. She'd made a spectacular lunch from scratch, smiling and singing Christmas carols all the while. He found himself reminiscing about the old her. The woman that had been happy and smart and energetic. Not this shell. He missed her. As he sipped his eggnog on the couch, watching the twins pedal around the wide living room, he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Guilt that he'd neglected them for some strange homeless lady he didn't even know. He'd been helping her when he should've been helping Martia. Instead, he'd dropped the ball and rendered her helpless. Their marriage, helpless.

Watching the twins mow circles along the wooden floor, smiling up at him toothlessly every time they passed him, pig tails swinging, looking at him like he was the only man on earth, he wondered how he could ever consider it. He couldn't tear them from a parent. While Martia was a complete wreck, he wondered if it was fair to take them from her.

To add to the steaming pile, he headed out after ten, once the kids were sleeping, to try and find Allison. Mostly out of obligation. He'd gotten good at finding her hang outs. She was always in the same general places, though never twice in a row. He wasn't sure why he'd left, after his revelation. But she needed a Christmas too.

It was all getting too heavy. Juggling Allison's spiraling issues and Martia's all at once. He wondered what exactly had motivated him to this mess. Had it been Allison's helplessness? He couldn't have just left her on the street like that, bleeding and scared. Then, he could've called the police. But they would've taken her to some shelter, probably against her will. Regardless, he was too involved now and couldn't escape. He always died by his own hand, he thought bitterly, peeking into an alley way near the deli.

He'd brought her a virtual feast: turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, ham, and macaroni and cheese. It was all wrapped neatly in a Styrofoam box.

When he found her, she was awake in her makeshift pallet on the ground, reading some tattered book. The cover had been ripped away and most of the binding, but she held it together. She had a knack for that, with things that were broken. Like herself.

"Hey," he said, hoping not to startle her. He didn't. She smiled at him expectantly.

"Hi."

He held the box out to her. "I brought you some dinner."

He came closer, bending next to her and handing the food over before sitting.

She opened the lid, and grinned widely at the contents. He marveled at her perfect teeth.

She swiped a finger through the potatoes and licked her finger clean.

He leaned back against the brick wall behind them, rougher than he should have. He felt uncomfortable, like his skin was crawling just from her presence. It was strange and unexplainable. He usually loved being around her.

He tapped his fingers against the pavement, bunching a pile of snow into his palm.

"I lied to you," she whispered, now staring down at her food unsmiling. Her expression carried more guilt than his own.

"What?" he asked.

"I lied," she choked out, turning to face him.

"What are you talking about?" he repeated.

"I'm not homeless."

Silence hung like a precariously swaying chandelier.

The familiar tightness or betrayal in his chest nearly took his breath. He leaned forward, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not homeless," she repeated. "Well, I am but…"

"You are, but you're not? Allison, which is it?" he pressed, the emotion of the past few days overwhelming him and wearing his temper.

"I've got a place to go If I wanted to, but I don't. So I just…wander," she admitted, so softly that he'd almost missed it. She poked at the turkey in the box with one finger, testing its texture.

"You willingly wander the streets because you don't want to stay home?"

"No," she said, struggling. She sighed heavily and picked up at piece of meat. "You don't get it," she said heavily. He could almost hear her heart fall to her stomach.

"Well, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to get anymore, Allison! What can I believe?" ha said softly. "Is your name even Allison?" It had sounded more vicious than he'd meant it to.

"Don't be an asshole," she said, looking at him with narrow, dark eyes.

"Why are you acting like the victim now?" he said loudly. She didn't try hush him.

She rounded to face him, eyes black and churning with storm clouds. Her jaw hung open as she tried to formulate a response.

"Eat. Shit," she said.

She scrambled to her feet, tossing the box away from her lap. Martia's Christmas feast splattered into the snow as she took off, holding her book, coat, and new satchel in her arms. He was quick to catch her, grabbing her elbow maybe a bit too roughly.

"I'm not leaving," he said, jaw tight.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted, her voice cracking.

"Tell me what's wrong. Why are you here? I want to know." His voice was quieter, but just as demanding.

"Leave me ALONE!" she screeched.

He released her, unable to hold her anymore in her squirming. She threw her book at his chest. It thumped dully and landed in the dirt in a pile of loose leaves.

He waited, hands in his pockets. He didn't want her to leave now; he wanted an explanation. But he wouldn't keep her hear in fear or reluctance.

"I lived with my sister," she said, softly, slowly. "She took me out of the…" She paused, but Andrew didn't even hear her breathe. "The mental institution. But there weren't any doctors who wanted to deal with me, and I just went right back to the way I'd been before. I tried to get her to understand, but she doesn't have any patience for me. No one ever did."

She paused again and Andy shifted uncomfortably.

"One night, I had a complete meltdown. I really don't remember everything that happened." He shoulders hunched forward and up, curling into herself. "She wouldn't help me."

He waited. Seconds, minutes passed until he finally spoke. He whispered, "What's wrong with you?"

She didn't answer immediately.

"I don't want to tell you," she said. "You'll hate me. You'll leave." Her dark fringe hung in her face so that he couldn't see anything other than the straggled dark mop. But she looked up, and through the dark veil he saw her sharp, deep brown eyes, watery and more alive than he'd ever seen them. "I don't want you to leave."

Twin tears spilled over, trickling down her cheeks in straight streams.

His hand reached up between them, reaching for her. This time she stepped forward, bending into his arms and pressing her forehead against his chest.

She cried, quick little breaths and whimpers escaping her throat.

The doubt and guilt melted, if only for a moment. He held her there, fingers pressing into her thick sweater, just listening.

"You gonna be ok?" he asked.

She let out a dull laugh. "No. I never am." She pulled away and wiped at her eyes.

"I…" He sighed, He couldn't believe this. He wasn't sure how it had all began. What had propelled him to her like this. "I can't...I'm so sorry Allison, but you've got to understand that I can't keep going like this. I've got a wife, and kids. And…"

She breathed. "I get it."

"But you need help. And maybe it isn't mine anymore."

She looked conflicted a moment. He thought she'd protest, but she nodded. "I know."

"I'm not leaving you," he said, reaching up to brush his fingers at her elbow. "I just need to sort some things out."

"OK," she said.

He pulled her in, resting his chin on her crown. He wasn't really sure what to say. "Merry Christmas," he whispered.

She laughed again, this time more real and sputtered with tears. "Merry Christmas, Andrew."


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Sorry the updates are getting slower. The chapters are getting harder and harder for me to write. This is sooooo challenging. And I'm just generally busier as the summer progresses. Sorry. But please review. They are always lovely.

-O-O-O-

Claire thanked the cashier and took her coffee, reaching over for a paper sleeve. She accidently nudged the bucket of straws, and they scattered over the concrete flooring.

She cursed and bent to pick them up, right next to a man dressed like he was headed to Wall Street, in a jet black suit and shiny shoes, but a whacky bow tie that was too large and didn't match. His glasses reminded her of some nerd she knew back at school but couldn't place.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, grasping a handful of the paper-wrapped straws.

He bent to help her. "No, its no problem."

She didn't even glance at him, just continued picking up the mess.

"Hey. You're Cinderella."

She looked up at him and his boyish eyes behind the glasses. His cheeks were pink and he looked almost star-struck.

She smiled and shrugged. "Yeah." She poked the straws back into the bucket, standing at full height now. He followed, slipping in the last few straws.

Then she laughed and smiled at him. "Is it normal for accountants to have a thing for ballet?"

He blushed even deeper red, but tried to look confident. "Hey. A man can't appreciate fine art? You're pretty girl…I mean…" He cleared his throat. "Pretty good."

He had a soft lisp, and she wasn't sure which was funnier: his fumble or his speech impediment.

She laughed. "Claire," she said, holding her hand out.

"Brian," he answered, taking it.

"Um…" she shifted, plucking a napkin from the holder nearby. She retrieved the pen from the front pocket her purse. "You want an autograph?"

"How about lunch?"

She looked up, shocked at first and then smiled kindly. "Um…I'm…sort of…not…" she tried to come up with an excuse, but he put his hands up, backpedalling and obviously mortified.

"No, its cool I get it."

"OK," she laughed awkwardly and so did he.

She penned her signature, handing the brown paper square over.

Brian was so red when she looked up that she thought he might burst. He was holding his breath, hands in his trouser pockets. She could practically see him mentally kicking himself for what he'd said.

"I'll see you later," Claire said, waving, turning for the exit of the coffee shop.

"Sure," Brian said, trying to play cool.

As an afterthought, she turned. "Um. Brian?"

He spun so fast to face her, he almost tripped over himself. "Yeah?"

"Its cool. By the way."

He turned into a tomato again and his head ducked down to his collar. "K."

The bell behind them jingled softly and Brian's face blossomed with recognition. "Hi, Andrew!" he said.

Claire turned, seeing the man, tall and muscled as ever in a similar outfit as Brian's without the jacket or bow tie. "Andrew!" she said.

He smiled kindly. "Hey guys. Just getting coffee before work. How are you?" He glanced at Claire who moved aside so he could stand in line to order.

"I'm great."

Brian looked confused. "You know him?"

Claire nodded. "High school."

"And college," Andrew said.

"Right." Claire nodded.

Brian looked suddenly shameful. "So is he your…?"

Now Claire turned red. "Oh, no. God no."

Andrew laughed. "How do you two know each other?" he asked, gesturing between them.

Brian stuttered a moment. "Well...uh…uhm…I'm just a really big fan."

Claire laughed, fringe falling into her eyes.

"Weird that we'd all see each other here," Andrew said.

Familiar guitar chords filtered through the open doorway for just seconds before it slid shut again.

"Yeah," Claire said, distracted and watching the curb outside. "Weird." She shifted her purse up her shoulder. "Um…Well I need to get to rehearsal. I'll see you two later, ok?"

They both nodded, and Andrew leaned forward for a hug.

She hurried outside, wanting to get a glimpse of him before she could talk herself out of it or he had the time to leave. He was on a bench near the coffee shop door. It was a wonder a policeman hadn't stopped by to shoo him away for loitering. She smiled down at him and waved. "Hi. Good morning."

"Says who?" he quipped, not pausing.

She recognized the song. The Smiths.

She rolled her eyes and he finally looked at her. "Nice hat, Queenie. Very chic."

She smirked, pouting her lips. "Yeah, that's what my boyfriend says."

She wasn't teasing. She was trying to make him jealous. It wasn't working. But he'd play along.

He eyed her, an eyebrow arched. "Oh really?"

"Yeah," she said casually, pretending to look at something down the block.

"So…" John thumped one hand against his guitar, stopping his strumming. "You tell him about your wild, passionate kiss with the homeless bum on Main?"

He was trying to piss her off.

She blushed, though the dreary grey sky washed it out. "I won't tell if you won't."

He snorted.

"You coming over tonight?" she asked. "Its supposed to snow really hard."

"I can brave it," he said.

"Suit yourself," she said, flouncing down the sidewalk.

"I won't tell if you won't," he said in a low voice before she passed out of earshot. He watched her turn over her shoulder and smirk.

-O-O-O-

He wasn't sure how exactly he'd managed to get in here. It was after intermission. The ushers had gone on a smoke break thirty minutes ago. If he shed his huge trenchcoat, he looked realatively harmless except for his uncombed hair. The theatre doors clipped noisily behind him, but didn't slam, there at the back of the orchestra where he was a wonderful view of her.

He didn't remember ever being in an actual theatre, other than a high school auditorium. The orchestra was much louder than he had anticipated, and at first he couldn't find her among the crowd of people on stage.

The prince, or who he assumed was playing the prince, twisted through the crowd of other dancers as if he were lost. The crowd cleared, and there she was.

Her curls were pinned up in a sleek style off her face, a feathered and beaded headpiece pinned at the side of her face. She wore a clean white costume, looking even more radiant than normal. Like an angel. Like a ghost.

The prince held a hand to her. Her shy smile to the side wasn't unfamiliar.

He was lost. Lost watching the figure sway like a tree in the breeze. She was regal and pristine, weightless as the man lifted her to his shoulder, parading her around. She fluttered back to the ground, on her toes and arched forward, reaching for the air in front of her. She was butterfly. Better than a butterfly.

He was breathless.

He stood there at the back, worn boots sinking into the plush red carpet.

The princess. The pauper.

A fairytale with a bitter ending.

In the next scene, she was dressed in shredded rags, dirt smudged over her nose. She was still ravishing.

He wasn't entirely versed in the plot of Cinderella, and wasn't trying to keep up. He was too lost watching her. She clung to her broom like it was her prince, cradling it close. He'd never seen a smile like that. So white and perfect, so dream-like.

He ignored the other dancers, wanting to memorize her every move. The prince had entered again now. He knew who it was because of the pomp and circumstance that accompanied him. Suddenly, he felt strangely uncomfortable. Like he might get caught here. He turned to leave, not bothering to ease the door quietly shut behind him.

It was thirty minutes later when she emerged from the theatre. He watched from the opposite corner of the street as she took photos and sighed programs, smiling all the while. Her hair was still pulled up, caught in a crocheted headband around her face. Her ball gown was traded for her red peacoat, and sweatpants. Still, she looked every bit a queen.

As if sensing him, she moved towards his corner without looking up at him.

"Sorry I didn't bring you flowers," he said, hoping she didn't suspect he'd been there.

She just smiled wryly and fell into step beside him.

-O-O-O-

Anyone that saw them from the outside would've laughed. They were contrasting. The nerdy accountant and the fashionable city girl, sipping her cappuccino from a wide-rimmed mug as he bit into a chocolate chip scone.

He wasn't quite sure how they'd ended up here. It was completely out of character of him to ask her on a date the very first time they'd met, but he'd always said that if he ever saw Claire Standish out in public, he'd pluck up the courage to ask the question, even if she laughed in his face. They'd become fast friends, and he was more than ecstatic that she'd wanted to hang out after his shameful verbal fumble at the coffee shop a few months ago. For being so very different in appearance, they had a lot in common.

He grew up just outside of Shermer, and had attended the same school as John. She didn't bother asking if he'd known him. She didn't even know his last name, and she was sure there were plenty of Johns around the suburbs of Chicago.

His parents were also recently divorced, but his mother wasn't nearly as crazy.

Today, they were waiting to meet up with Andrew. The New Year had come and gone uneventfully and the muggy spring air was melting the snow. It was mid February now and her run in Cinderella would soon come to an end. She wasn't ready to face that fact. As routine as it had become, searching for a new role was hell. Her agent had scheduled several auditions, even several in typical Broadway shows, but she loathed them now. In the past, it had been exciting. An opportunity for competition, to be younger and thinner than the rest. She wasn't sure why, but she just couldn't get back into the swing of it all.

Andrew entered in a bluster, fumbling with an oversized camera bag, his thick windbreaker, and a satchel of notebooks. Claire laughed. "Hey, big shot," she said, motioning him over to the table.

"Thanks," he huffed, sitting. "Soccer season sucks. Who the fuck cares about soccer?" He shed his bags and coat in a heap around his chair.

Brain raised his hand warily. "I…I care."

"Yeah. That's cuz you're a dweeb," he teased.

Claire laughed again, and so did Brian.

"How's Allison?" Brian asked, and Claire's attention was piqued at the unfamiliar name.

Andrew shrugged. "I haven't seen her since Christmas. I think I kind of…ended things really badly." His voice trailed off.

"How so?" Brian asked at the same time as Claire piped up, "Who's Allison?"

"She's a woman I met one night…she's…" He shrugged. "Homeless, and kind of crazy. I was trying to give her a hand."

She sounded strange, and someone Claire would very much not like to meet. Already, there was a stigma surrounding her. But as Claire thought about her first encounter with John, it didn't seem so different.

"I told her I needed to fix things with Martia. I haven't seen her since."

"Was she upset?" Brian asked.

"No. She didn't seem like it. But um…" He shifted uncomfortably, wanting to change the subject. He never thought he'd want to willingly talk about his wife. "I think Martia and I are all patched up. She's getting help for the drinking…and the girls…Well, I just couldn't leave the girls. You know? They don't deserve that kind of life."

Claire rested her palm against the wrought iron table. "Andy, if you aren't happy, then you shouldn't feel forced to stay."

She'd heard the rumors around Chicago. At least, she thought she'd heard. Never had she discussed it with Andrew himself. That was almost taboo: confronting someone with what you'd heard along the grape vine. She knew about the babies, and how they'd married quick to cover it all up. She didn't believe that anyone could force themselves to be in love, and when she watched Andrew night after night in college, she knew she was right.

Andrew's eyes became cold suddenly. "Life isn't a fuckin' fairytale, Claire. Sometimes we have to do things because they're right, not because we want to do them."

She swallowed, catching Brian's sorrowful eyes before she looked down at the table.

She watched out the window, not really hoping to see anything—or anyone. She was almost glad she didn't.

"Look," Andrew said after several minutes. "I'm sorry I was a dick. Its just…this Allison crap has me all worked up. Just…I don't even know if she's still alive."

He said it more to Brian than to her.

"Its cool," she said, sliding a five dollar bill onto the table and standing to leave. "I'll see you two later. I've got an audition today."

As an afterthought, she turned towards the table again. "Andrew? I know I'm the last person you want to hear advice from, but if the right thing is always what people want from us, we might have to reevaluate what that right thing is." She shrugged nonchalantly and left, the door bells jingling behind her.

-O-O-O-

Her audition was fine. Usually, she'd say flawless. But this was fine. She was distracted, and she knew the directors and producers could tell. It had taken her nearly twice as long to learn the choreography, and she had been just one beat behind more than once.

John's presence in her apartment was a relaxing force while she laid in bed, running through the dance over and over again in her mind, picking at her flaws and imagining the panel's whispers as they watched her.

He stayed rather frequently, and that was just three or four times and month. Whenever she saw him, he followed behind in an inconspicuous fashion until they made it to the elevator.

She wasn't sure when or why this had become a ritual. She had started it, but she'd never thought it would continue like this. It was weird, living with him. They barely talked, barely knew a thing about the other. But they fit. They were magnetized to one another like it was always just that way.

She never intruded into his life, and he never asked questions. If that was their unspoken agreement, she could deal with it.

She roused herself, straightening her pajama top and letting the cool flooring send a shiver up her spine when she stood. The hallway was black, but she could find her way to the bathroom easily enough. She remembered leaving the light on after her shower, and didn't think twice about opening the door.

Until he was there, before her, bent against the floor, arranging a thin line of powder against the terracotta of her tile flooring.

She gasped, clinging around the door frame. "Ohmygod…"

-O-O-O-

He glanced up sharply, not bothering to flick the hair from his eyes. "Fuck," he cursed. He bent back down against the tile, poking his finger against one nostril and taking a whiff.

He knew she was too scared to protest, and he was too determined to waste good coke.

He looked up at her again, wiping his nose with his sleeve. He could only see her dainty hand, grasping the door jamb with white knuckles. A splash of red hair stood out against the white frame where her head was resting. She looked like a kicked animal.

"Hey," he said loudly.

She didn't move.

So he stood, taking a wide stride over his array of tools towards her. "Look, what the fuck do you want me to say?"

She didn't respond. "I can't believe this is happening to me," she whispered, unmoving.

"You expected something else? You expected a fine upstanding citizen?"

"Fuck you," she said. This time her body shuddered with the weight of her words.

He still couldn't see her face, just the mess of orange curls, her blue pajamas, and her white knuckles.

"I don't know what to tell you," he admitted staunchly.

She sobbed. Time seemed to reel and he wondered if it had really happened or if he had just imagined it.

The silence must've lasted ten minutes. His knees were aching.

"You can't live in an ivory tower if you look for trouble, Princess," he said. "You knew this would happen. I did."

"Oh my God…." She mumbled again, lifting her head. He wasn't sure now who's eyes were more bloodshot. "You can't just fucking bring that stuff here. Are you a fucking…?"

She was trying to talk. She liked to talk to pretend things weren't uncomfortable. He'd picked up on that particular habit.

"Addict?" he finished. He spat the word at her, as if she were too cowardly to say it herself.

He moved passed her, ducking back into the shadows of the apartment. He waited until she'd gained her composure and moved into the bathroom finally. He heard more crying, shuffling around, and the flush of the toilet. But by that time he'd already packed his tiny bag and slipped out soundlessly.


	8. Chapter 8

(Slightly Important) AN: I thought I'd explain a bit of my inspiration for this story. I've been working this summer with the homeless, and their struggles—and their victory over those struggles—have inspired me to write a story in which love, even in the darkest night, triumphs. If we truly understand love, we know that it is not always akin to ''like" or "contentness" and it is not always nice. But it is an unselfish choosing for someone else's highest good. This morning I was reminded of their preciousness and value as people and their realness.

I hope I honor them and John Hughes by this story, and I hope you enjoy.

-O-O-O-

Cinderella had closed two weeks ago and she still had no job. It wasn't for lack of trying: she couldn't keep track of all the auditions she went on. And it wasn't for lack of talent: they all told her how beautiful and what a lovely dancer she was. But she never made the cut. She was beginning to get discouraged. She spent countless hours at the studio, rehearsing and choreographing little bits and pieces to keep her mind busy. Tonight was no different. She'd lost track of how long she'd been here, pushing all the raw emotion she had into her work.

She hadn't seen John since that night. Frankly, she didn't care if she ever saw him again. She'd been doing him a favor and she'd gotten screwed over. She hated him. He had no regard for respect or decency. He thought he could shit all over everything and leave her with the mess.

But his face wouldn't leave her mind. She couldn't get rid of him. His voice was still there, loud and sly. His big brown eyes that swallowed her and searched her soul.

She spun forward in an attitude turn, catching her reflection in the mirror as she did so. She lost her focus and her balance, and her ankle twisted beneath her. She landed in a heap on the ground, gripping her ankle with both hands. She sat several minutes, eyes pinched shut and pain shooting through one leg.

She lifted herself up and started again.

Screw him.

-O-O-O-

Sometimes he wanted to be young again. To be a wrestler in his own stupid little world, unaware of anyone else's heart ache or his own. Things seemed to fix, and then as soon as he turned around they were shattered at his feet again.

He was faced with a choice.

Leaver her and the kids. Leave her, see the kids every now and then. Or stay.

There was no way he would be able to get custody, with Martia being so good at hiding her little condition.

The roller coaster was beginning to drain him. He couldn't keep riding.

He'd cried. Right there in front of his babies. He'd tried to hide it as he packed their matching backpacks to go on a trip to their grandmother's house.

It had been simpler when it was just alcohol. Now it was men.

He didn't mind. Or at least he pretended not to mind. He didn't care what she did with them, it was the principle of it all. The fact that he now meant absolutely nothing to a woman he was forced into a relationship with. And that's what had broken him right there on his daughter's bed.

That he regretted having them. Resented them, and if they were gone, everything would be fine and he'd have nothing to be responsible to or for anymore.

Once the twins had crawled into his lap and managed to wipe away his few tears, he helped them to gather a few toys and drove them out to Jersey for a few weeks while he sorted things out.

He wanted a divorce. But a divorce meant leaving his kids. Or being weaseled into every other weekend.

They didn't deserve that.

On the ride back to Manhattan, he pictured Claire, twirling on her toes around a darkened stage, spotlighted and graceful as a swan. What a picture perfect world she had. What a menagerie. What a fantasy she let herself dwell in just to feel safe and honored and respected.

What a wake up call.

And Allison…

He hadn't seen her in months. He had no idea where she'd gone or if she'd even existed beyond the few days he knew her.

She was gone, and the more the time passed, the deeper he ached just to know how she was. Just to hear her voice and know she was still alive, not bled out on the streets somewhere in a fit of madness.

If there was one person now who he could be grateful for, it was Brian. He was the most unlikely friend Andrew had ever had. He would've never associated with someone like him had it not been for Allison. But maybe that was her purpose all along.

-O-O-O-

A callback. Finally, a callback for A Midsummer Night's Dream. They listed her as one of the dancers they were considering for Titania, but it was all the same to her if she just got a role as a butterfly.

Her practices were long and lonely, but they gave her time to forget him. It had been nearly a month now since she saw him in her bathroom.

She was certain he knew that the show had closed, and he was now wandering somewhere else, hustling some other harmless ballerina.

It wasn't until April when she saw him again. He slammed into her shoulder, on the run from a convenience store, merchandise tucked beneath his trench coat. She'd locked eyes with him immediately. At first, he'd just stared, but gave her a quick smirk before continuing his breakneck speed away from the corner store.

Today she was in the park, taking a break from the endless streams of auditions and spending time alone. She'd run her daily mile through the park and settled on a bench, watching the nearby families and kids play or have a picnic.

That's how she'd pictured it. Happy, and easy. Instead, she'd bound herself to life as a spinster, a robot of dance. If she'd been so passionate about this, why was it now a monster? Just feet away, one couple was turned away from her, sitting in the grass beneath a tall oak tree. The woman's hair was long and blazing red, like her own. The man's designer outfit gave his status away, and when he leaned in to kiss her, Claire wondered if it was just a little wrong to imagine that woman was her.

She glanced away, rubbing at her eyes pathetically.

"You're on my bench," a familiar voice murmured above and she glanced up sharply.

She scoffed up at him. His hair was still shaggy and his clothes were still tattered, though she'd never seen this particular t-shirt before. It was emblazoned with a band logo, though one she'd never heard of before.

He looked recently showered and healthy, color in his cheeks and a new bulk to his muscles.

"What?" she asked exasperated, wishing he'd just leave.

"I said you're on my bench."

She tugged the zipper of her track suit higher over her chest. "So?"

He rolled his eyes and pointed towards the sky. "S'bout to rain. Shouldn't you get inside? Wouldn't want to ruin that perfectly coiffed carrot top."

She glared, sneering before she gathered her things and stood. She followed the path of the sidewalk towards the gate of the park, letting him have his beloved bench like he'd asked so kindly of her.

"Queenie!" he said loudly behind her.

She audibly groaned and turned. He was waving a black leather bound book at her: her appointment calendar.

She approached quickly and grabbed the book. "Thanks," she muttered in response.

But he didn't release the book, holding it fast and jerking her forward a step with the force of his grip.

"Give it to me," she growled.

"Go on a date with me."

She gawked and laughed out loud. "Are you fucking serious?"

"Shhh, Queenie! Watch your language. There are children around."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you paying?" she said, lips pursed.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. Because that would mean you actually have a job." She jerked her calendar from his grip and stuffed it into her bag.

"Whoa, you _are_ smart!" he snided sarcastically.

"Who hired you?" she questioned.

"Don't waste good conversation. Save it for Friday night at seven?"

Her lips thinned as she pretended to consider. "Hmmm…Darn, I've got rehearsal. Sunday night?" she bargained.

"I'll miss church with my granny," he joked and she scoffed. "But she'll get over it eventually. See you then, Princess."

-O-O-O-

She wore a dress, but nothing fancy. She wasn't expecting anything five-star. He explained, when he picked her up to walk over to the restaurant, that he had gotten an apartment, a job, and was working on the drugs.

She tried not to act too impressed, though she was indeed surprised.

At the diner, she ordered a salad, even though it earned her a humorous stare from John.

"So Princess," he said. "Well…I guess you aren't a princess anymore."

She shook her head. "No. I'm auditioning for A Midsummer Night's Dream right now. I got a call back."

He shrugged. " That's cool I guess. I work at the tobacco shop on Avenue F."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. She fiddled with the napkin in front of her, tearing it at the corners. She'd never considered how different they were. How far apart. She didn't make much as a dancer, but she was certain it was more than he made at Dale's Smoke & Herbs.

She looked up at him suddenly. "Is this awkward?" she asked.

He looked confused. "Awkward as hell, why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just…I…" She put a fist to her chin and looked away. "I'm sorry, I just…like you, John." She smiled. "And I'm sorry for the way things ended the other night. That was so stupid." She shook her head. "I just didn't know what to do. And I don't want this to be weird, you and me. I don't want you to think I just want a free meal and meaningless sex." She looked back to him, gesturing her hands towards him.

His eyebrows rose. "Well. I didn't think either of those were even possibilities until you mentioned them. I know if you want a free meal, you've probably got dozens of guys at your feet willing to take you to the Oak Room, not just the corner diner. And as far as meaningless sex…well, I can try and make it meaningless." He shrugged non-chalantly. "If you like. But…" He leaned closer. "You and I both know it won't be."

He had this way of making a joke or a lewd comment with just a straight face. It made her shiver.

She smiled and cursed herself for being easily flustered. She gained her composure quickly though, smirking back at him. "So you were expecting sex then, meaningless or not?"

"You said it first, Princess," he said lowly, almost a growl and it sent a shiver up her spine.

"Can you at least wait til we get our food?" she teased.

"Got you all hot and bothered already?" He grinned. "That was fast."

"You're an ass," she said, trying not to smile.

He leaned back, arching his hands behind his head. "Sue me."

-O-O-O-

The belt on her dress was undone before the door was even closed. He struggled with the unfamiliar fabric, tugging at the cotton until it slouched on her shoulders and he could reach her porcelain white décolletage. Her hands tugged behind her at the zipper until it pooled in a soft halo around her ankles. Then his hands were everywhere.

They were opposites, as she moved chastely and slow, he was furious and heated. The momentum melted and soon they were stumbling over one another towards the bedroom in his tiny apartment. She bumped the stove and it rattled noisily, startling several dirty pans there. She pulled at his shirt, leaving him in a pair of dark, ratty blue jeans. She tossed the material somewhere into the darkness. The metal of the fridge was cool against her skin when he pressed her against it. She gasped in surprise, high pitched and muted, when he grabbed her thighs to pin her there.

Her muscles were taut and slender from years of dancing, and he wished he could just memorize every arch of her. Lock Rapunzel away for his own keeping.

She had never done this before. It felt frightening, scary, but sweltering with need and a sense of primitiveness. She was in her bedroom again, back in Chicago, hoping her parents couldn't hear and thrilled that they might walk in at any moment. She blushed when he nipped at her collarbone.

They hadn't even made it to the bedroom yet and she was already trembling against him with the weight of it all. Already in pieces. She pictured the glass slipper from the fairytale, delicate and transparent.

And then she was crying again, into his skin. He was soaking it up, pressing against her, sending flames across her body.

He didn't ask, for he already knew.

His nose nudged against her cleavage, her neck, and finally beneath her chin, trying to get her attention without speaking. He kissed her softly, slowly. An encouragement that it was ok. Her lips parted in another labored and choked breath as more tears dripped silently onto his shoulder.

One of his calloused, yet slender hands drifted over her wet cheek, pulling her closer, drinking her in.

Her back ached from being pressed against the fridge, and she groaned, pushing against him to be freed. Her legs dropped from around his waist, and he must've thought she was leaving because his hands locked at her back and pressed her against him again.

"No…" he said darkly, almost frighteningly. But his movements were slow and calculated.

He was warm. Like the coolest part of fire. She let her mouth dip to his neck, and heard him breathe in the scent of her hair. Then she felt his fingers in it, his fingers everywhere, speeding up again.

He tugged her waist, pulling her forwards towards what she realized was meant to be a living room, but he'd plopped a mattress and a pile of blankets there in the center of the floor instead. It was crude, but the blue of the sheets looked inviting and she let herself ease onto it, moving slowly and feeling his eyes on her every second. It was irritating, embarrassing, but she didn't want him to look away.

She watched him, standing over her, bourbon eyes boring into every pore as she leaned back on the sheets. He just stood there watching, a striped pattern of light and shadow on his face. Slowly, slowly, he followed her, crawling hands and knees onto the mattress.

He covered her, the streetlights filtering in from the windows behind them casting a strangely shaped shadow along his back.

She touched it, tracing the sharp curve and he pressed nearer to her.

He kissed her cheek, wetly and sloppily, but smudging the damp tear tracks before hugging her to him tenderly.

-O-O-O-

It was a strange feeling, waking up in a place you weren't familiar with. She panicked a moment, staring at the paneled walls and white-washed door and floorboards. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and must. The tiny room they were in had wire poking from open holes in the walls, broken blinds on the windows, and she could hear a very near siren outside.

She glared at the tangle of tires just above her head. She was facing the edge of the mattress, tangled in a dusty blue sheet that smelled similarly of cigarettes. She turned.

John was already awake, still laying beside her, and prying a cigarette from between his lips, blowing smoke up at the ceiling.

"Hey," he said casually.

She shifted, bringing the sheet with her. The light of the morning was ghostly grey and, mingled with John's cigarette smoke, was a haunting color.

Her fingers reached up to his shoulder, tracing a pale scar there. Her lips parted to say something but she couldn't think of anything.

As usual, he compensated for her and passed her the cigarette. She stared at his fingers a moment before taking the little nub between two fingers. When she inhaled, she coughed loudly, her lungs contracting with the unwanted substance.

He just laughed.

"Disgusting," she said.

He hummed. "Nice thing to say first thing the morning after," he said, taking another long drag.

She was quiet, watching him until he turned and stamped out the cigarette on the window sill inches above them. He left the butt there with a dozen others. But he eyes darted to the scars along his back, long and white. She remembered them from the first tiem she patched him up after the knife fight.

"What are those from?" she asked, reaching up to run her fingers over them.

Instead of answering, he laid back down on the mattress. "How was it, Cherry?" he asked.

It was an unexpected, inappropriate,, and almost lewd question. She should've been offended but she decided to answer anyways. "It was wonderful."

He seemed satisfied, smiling to himself but wiping it away with his hand.

"It wasn't how…I thought it would be?"

He glared over at her. "What's that mean?"

She shrugged, reaching for his shoulder. She felt him flinch beneath her fingers. "I just didn't expect that it would ever happen with…"

"With someone like me?" he accused.

She shook her head. "No, that's not what I meant."

He tugged himself away, shifting to sit up. The grey light cast a silver shadow on his scars., his muscles, as they shifted and rippled with his movement.

"John…" she tried.

He was arched awkwardly because the mattress laid on the floor, his knees almost to his chest.

"That's so fucking arrogant of you to say…" he said. He voice didn't carry at all in the small room.

"I didn't say that. I mean…" Of course she had never imagined spending a night with a burnout bum just off the streets. That didn't seem arrogant of her to say. She wasn't sure exactly how she had imagined it, but her future certainly had never included him.

She hadn't expected to get so involved. But she was too far gone. Too connected, head and heart. She needed him, needed to care for him and know he was safe. Needed him, not because he was a charity case, or because he was bad news. But because he was hers.

She took a breath, ready to speak again, but he cut her off.

He lifted a hand, gesturing to prove his point. "I don't know how…" he began. His hand hung in midair, grasping for a thought, a reason.

"You don't know how to what?" she asked.

"I don't know how…" His hands flew to his hair and he groaned. This was so stupid. "I don't know how to love you, I just know that I do. I just know that ever since I laid eyes on you, ever since they plastered than damn poster up in Times Square with your face on it, I haven't gotten you out of my head. And its fucked up, and its stupid, and its crazy, but I can't ignore it anymore! You've…" He cursed. "You've done so much for me already, you don't even realize. You kept me safe, you kept me sane. Just the thought of you, do you realize that?" He still wasn't facing her. His hair hung in his face, like a viel. His voice grew quiet. She had to strain to hear it. "And I'm sorry, but I can't give you anything. And it isn't fair to ask you to give it all up for a hopeless shithead like me."

Her lips pursed and unpursed, opened and closed. There weren't words that could match truth when it fell so thickly like that.

Instead, she nudged forward, sitting up, and pressing her cheek against the cool plane of his back. She rested there, the sheet around her body separating their skin, her face pressed to his spine. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping them firmly before she rested them around his waist.

"John…" she whispered, letting the word stretch.

They must've rested there a long while, because when she looked up, the sun cast a longer shadow over the room. She gazed over the scars that marred his skin. Some round, some jagged, some straight. All years old and forgotten. She pressed her lips to one long one, kissing it from end to end, wishing she could lift the mark from his very skin.


End file.
